


Sometimes You Picture Me–

by faeleverte



Series: Harmonies Verse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: Time has passed and life moves on. But does real love, true love, a first-time-perfect love ever really go away? Sometimes all it takes is one picture to bring it all right back.





	1. Couson, Mail

A shout in the hallway startled Phil out of his story. He carefully laid the book down on the foot locker that acted as his nightstand and opened the door to pick up the envelope lying on the floor. It was the first mail he’d gotten in four months, since his Aunt Nia’s birthday package, and he wasn’t really expecting anything until Christmas rolled around. 

The handwriting on the envelope didn't look familiar, but Phil's name was on the front in cramped but legible letters. Phil closed the door without looking to see who else got a delivery that day (everyone watched for someone getting home-baked goods), and he hummed thoughtfully as he tore open the flap. Inside was a single piece of paper with a short note in the same handwriting as the envelope and a Polaroid picture that landed face down in his lap.

_He remembers you. He watches at every stop. Something’s wrong, though. Where are you?_

_Tabitha_

Phil's heart began to hammer, and he had to force his suddenly-shaking fingers to grasp the edge of the picture and lift it. 

_Clint._

His hair had been cut short and lightened, spiked and gelled into place, so different from that muggy morning, two years before, when they’d hugged goodbye and held on as long as they could without drawing attention. A handful of earrings studded Clint’s lobe and curled through the cartilage of the one ear the picture showed, and Phil licked his lips as he imagined what they’d feel like under his tongue. 

No. Under someone else’s tongue. Phil no longer had the right to trace that ear, or the perfect edge of that jaw where the boy Clint’d been was vanishing to be replaced by the man he appeared to be fast becoming. He had lost the last traces of baby fat, and Phil’s palms tingled as they imagined running over the swell of those perfect, hairless pecs, dusted lightly with glitter and wrapped in the purple leather of his quiver. Clint’s challenging smirk was just as bright as ever, just as sexy, and begging just as much to be kissed away.

_Something’s wrong, though._

It was a bucket of ice water over Phil’s head. The picture was no help on what could be wrong. Phil traced over the sharp edge of Clint’s hipbone in the picture, thumb sliding over the glossy finish along the edge of the sparkling purple pair of pants-- or were they shorts?-- that, apart from a purple armguard, was the only clothing Clint wore. He sucked in a deep breath, and finally looked back up at Clint’s face, pressed cheek to cheek with a bright palomino horse that wore a bridle that matched Clint’s quiver. Apparently, some time in the past two years, Clint had finally perfected that horseback shooting trick, and Phil felt a wistful pang of longing to see him in action.

A caption, written in a spidery script that Phil would have recognized anywhere, read, “Hawkeye and his horse, Coulson.”

Tears welled up in Phil’s eyes, and he held the picture further away, to keep from dripping saltwater on it. He smoothed his fingers over the swell of Clint’s bicep. 

_Something’s wrong._

He wondered what kind of trouble Clint was in, whether it was from the outside, or if he’d broken inside. Maybe Phil _should_ have put off enlisting for another year, stayed with Clint. Barney hadn’t planned on going back to the circus with Clint, not permanently. Maybe Clint had turned to alcohol or drugs or–

Phil cut off that line of thinking quickly. First, Clint’s body looked too toned, too perfect to be taking that kind of abuse. Second, Clint wouldn’t do something that could affect his aim, his accuracy. He had a fear of missing a target and a showman’s hunger for the adoration of an audience. He wouldn’t risk it. He _wouldn’t_.

_Where are you?_

There was the biggest problem. Phil couldn’t help Clint. He was in a jungle at the ass-end of nowhere, in a shabby little barrack that pretended not to exist, in a tiny cinder block-walled room with lousy climate control. Even if he was inclined to go AWOL and start hunting for Clint, start trying to find him and help him (and he was, oh God! He _was_ ), he had no way out of his own circumstances. Whatever was going on with Clint, Phil couldn’t help him. All he could do was dream and miss and wish. 

Phil looked down at the picture again, studying the beauty of Clint, the power that showed in even that grainy snap. He hadn’t stopped loving Clint, not even a little bit. Two years seemed a ridiculous length of time to stay attached, but Phil felt like he’d love Clint forever. No one he’d met since had sparked his interest like Clint did. Oh, Phil was no monk. He accepted good times offered to him, took ladies dancing and back to a hotel when he was on leave. He’d avoided meeting men, both because it could endanger his career, and because it could lead to messy emotions. He didn’t need a boyfriend.

He’d had one, and it had been right and good and perfect, and Phil didn’t need to try again. He’d gotten it so right on the first try, why should he go searching for what could only be second-best?

The note made Phil’s heart ache, but the picture stirred up a warmth under his ribs. In his BDUs. Looking at the picture stirred up a kind of want that Phil hadn’t felt since his last night with Clint. He ached with it. Burned with it. But Clint could be anywhere. He _certainly_ wasn’t there, in the sweltering jungle where Phil was, let alone in the room. But...

Phil had an idea. A very, very bad idea. Potentially disastrous idea, in fact. He couldn’t have resisted giving in to it had someone been holding a gun to his head, though. Not with his pulse hammering in his ears and his senses feeling fully awake for the first time in way too long. He jumped to his feet to lock the door and quickly stripped out of his clothing. 

He propped the picture against his pillow, kneeling in the center of his bed to try to keep from endangering the glossy finish. The idea of touching _that_ version of Clint quickly morphed into memories. Phil’s mind threw up things that he’d nearly forgotten: the little whimpers Clint made when he was close; how loud Clint got when they were certain they were alone; the softness in Clint’s eyes after he’d come, lying back to wait for Phil to finish inside him.

Phil’s orgasm rushed over him all at once, and he barely managed to get his spare hand around the head of his dick to contain the mess. Phil cleaned his hand off on his dirty t-shirt and flopped down with his head on the pillow, right beside Clint’s picture.

So…

Two years of no contact and a lifetime ahead of the same, and still just the thought of Clint had more power over Phil than any weekend fling he’d managed since. Phil kissed the picture once, guiltily, before sliding off his bed and digging out a fresh t-shirt. He pulled his pants back on and opened his footlocker.

A vinyl of Night at the Opera by Queen lay flat at the bottom, cardboard sleeve still pristine in spite of having been dragged halfway around the world a couple of times. Phil carefully slid the picture in with it, in with the two pictures already tucked inside. Phil couldn’t begin to pretend that the picture was of _just an old friend_ , and there was so little privacy in his current living arrangements. So he tucked it out of reach to keep himself from temptation to repeat what he’d just done as well as keep it from nosey brothers-in-arms. 

Repacking the chest, Phil closed the lid and turned away to see the letter lying on his desk. 

_He remembers you._

“So do I, Tab,” Phil murmured softly, folding the letter and sliding it back in the envelope, tucking it into his current book to mark his place. “There’s no way I could forget.”


	2. Remind Yourself that Everything Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's already gotten the pictures. Now he just has to hold onto the few good memories he has...
> 
> While running away

In the trailer, Clint shoved as many things into a bag as he could, trying to get the shaking in his hands under control. He had to stop and clutch at his ribs every time a cough bubbled up, but they creaked and complained under his palms, and simply touching his sides _hurt_ , almost more than he could bear. The blanket roll at the foot of the mattress beside him called to him, but he knew he couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest there for even a moment, or he’d never get back up in time, and if he didn’t get up in time…

He _had_ to be gone by morning, _before_ morning since he was sure Buck’d be back soon. He and his goons would remember Clint, when they saw the trailer, and they’d come in and finish what they’d started in that damned alley. Sticking around wasn’t an option. Clint didn’t regret it, though. Not one second of what he’d done that night. Buck had _promised_ that no one would get hurt. He’d been so careful before, to make certain there were no guards on the buildings they’d robbed. Clint hadn’t had any reason to believe anything else. 

But when the man had stepped into the alley, when Buck had told Clint to fire, Clint had frozen. He couldn’t do it. There was _no way_ he could do it. And then Buck had loosed an arrow. Clint could still hear his own scream echoing off the brick walls around them, echoing through the sudden emptiness of his own skull. Buck wasn’t as good a shot as Clint, never would be; he’d seen to that by beating the ability to miss out of Clint over the previous three years. 

The man had been writhing on the ground, mortally wounded but still just not _dying_. Buck had pulled at Clint’s arm, trying to get him to go with them, trying to get them all inside the building and inside the vault before anyone came out to find the source of that scream. 

Clint had reacted on instinct. 

A second arrow, also Buck’s but caught in Clint’s gloved hand, released from Clint’s gleaming, purple bow, flew straight and true, and the gurgling on the ground stopped. Buck had slammed his fist into Clint’s face, stunning him, knocking him to the ground. 

“I’ll deal with you later, _boy_ ,” Buck had snarled at him before he and Robbe and Brishan had stepped on Clint’s legs on the way past, into the jewelry store. 

Clint had wanted to run away then, but he couldn’t make his legs work, couldn’t make his eyes focus together. He leaned against the wall behind the dumpster, retching and gagging until he’d emptied himself of what felt like everything he’d eaten for the last six weeks. 

He’d _killed_ a man. He’d killed a man with Buck’s arrow. Why _Buck’s_ arrow? Why not his own? He hadn’t consciously decided to keep his own arrows in his quiver. He hadn’t been thinking consequences for himself or Buck or _anyone_. He’d just wanted to stop the pain of the man dying on the ground. He hadn’t wanted to _murder_ anyone. He hadn’t meant to try to cover up his own involvement.

He gagged again.

Then Buck had come back out, grabbed Clint’s hair, and slammed his face into the wall. The beating really got underway after that. Clint hadn’t even tried to fight back, too small compared to the other three, too outnumbered if he wasn’t, to stop them. He’d curled up as best he could and hoped he’d pass out or die soon. He didn’t die, and he didn’t pass out, but his possum trick worked well enough, and he was soon left, bleeding and stunned, lying on the ground near the dead man.

He’d had to hurry back to the carnival grounds, limping and wheezing, with flecks of blood staining his lips and the front of his shirt with each breath. He’d whispered one silent prayer of thanksgiving that Buck had taken their act to a smaller show, that he wouldn’t have to worry about Tabby or any of his other friends. Clint was sure that Buck had only done it because he was sure Clint wouldn’t try to run again, that he didn’t _need_ access to those people that Clint had cared about. Besides, sneaking away from carnies to commit crimes was way easier than sneaking out of Carson’s circus, where everyone kept a caring eye on everyone else.

Clint shook off his daze and another round of nausea, turning back to his trunk to see how to pack. There was no way the entire contents would fit in Clint’s duffle bag and backpack, so he was gonna have some hard choices to make. Clothes were a given, at least a few changes. Short sleeves only; there’d be time to grab a coat before it got cold again. Toothbrush, deodorant, razor all went in. None of them took up much space, and finding a place to live and a place to work’d both be easier if he didn’t stink and all his teeth were still in his head. The chain he’d once worn his mother’s ring on went around his neck, tucked under his shirt to keep it hidden. And then he’d made it to the bottom of the chest.

Clint reached back in with hands that trembled for reasons other than pain. Well, probably in addition to pain. Two vinyl albums in their neat cardboard sleeves-- _Physical Graffiti_ and _The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars_ \-- a photograph, and a newspaper clipping stared up at him. Clint slid the records into his backpack, wedging them carefully between the clothing and the back of the bag so that they’d rest flat against his back. It was ridiculous to take non-necessities, things of no survival or monetary value, but he couldn’t let go of them. Not now. Not when they represented the last good memory Clint carried with him.

The picture and scrap of newsprint were invisible in the dark, but Clint didn’t need to look at them. The photo was of a boy he had been, once upon a time, three years and a lifetime ago, and a boy he’d known and loved. They’d both been trying to be cool for the camera, but all they’d managed was Phil’s usual sexy smirk and Clint looking like he was made entirely of eyes and hair. The newspaper clipping showed a soldier in a small crowd of soldiers, and, although they were all in camo as they waited to board a plane to Panama, Clint would have recognized that _one_ soldier anywhere. 

The shoulders were broader than the last time Clint had clung to them in the dark, their bodies moving together like pieces of perfect machinery. He could extrapolate that the soldier’s back was wider and his thighs were harder, too. The nose had changed a bit, and Clint cringed every time he studied that profile, remembering the sickening crack under his fist as it made contact with Phil’s face. The corner of those perfect lips was tighter, more drawn than Clint had ever seen it. But the jaw… that flawless, strong jaw was the same. Clint’s lips ached to trace up the sharp line of it to that soft skin just beneath Phil’s ear, to hear that tiny hitch in his breathing when Clint would rest his teeth there.

Almost a year before, Tab had given Clint that newspaper clipping. It was around the same time a polaroid picture of Clint had gone missing: the one of him with his horse. The horse he’d named after a boy with a long nose and kind eyes and the steadiest heart Clint had ever known. He’d been an idiot to caption the picture. Still… If that picture was in Panama now, if it was with that soldier… Small loss. Except that, out of the circus, away from everything and everyone he’d ever known, Clint wished he’d had a picture of the damn horse, too. He missed that horse.

All packed up, Clint dug under the mattress to find the loose tile, prying it up until his hand could slip into the space beneath and pull out the small wad of bills. He whispered a thanks to Barney, wherever he was, for leaving Clint this at least, the money that would let him get away. It was the only thing Clint felt grateful to Barney for, since Barney had gotten Clint into the entire robbing things mess by refusing to do it himself. Clint forced himself to stop thinking about Barney and what he did or didn’t do, and finished zipping the bags closed and hoisting them, along with a pair of quivers and his bow, onto his shoulder. 

He wasn’t sure where he was going to go. Phil might still be in Panama, but he might not. And, anyway, if Phil was on active duty somewhere, he wouldn’t be in any position to help Clint out. Who knew where Barney was, and Clint didn’t really want to see him, anyway. Buck would probably guess that Clint would go running back to his brother. Clint didn’t want to be predictable. He glanced around the room to see if he’d forgotten anything. And no, no there was nothing left in the tiny trailer Clint wanted. He tried to think up a warning, something to tell Buck to watch his back; Clint would be ready the next time they met.

Thirty minutes later, when Buck and Brishan and Robbe stumbled back onto the carnival grounds, Clint was gone, a small pile of discarded clothing and a single arrow shot through the center of Buck’s pillow the only signs he’d ever been more than a poster on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for reading. The second (major) part of Harmonies is coming at you before the end of the month. And it has a title!
> 
> Won't Hold My Hands Up (and Surrender)
> 
> from _White Flag_ by Dido

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter two posting before the end of the weekend. I'm drafting like mad on the STILL untitled major part two of Harmonies. It really needs a title at some point. Anyway, it'll begin posting before the end of the month. 
> 
> Seriously, THANK YOU to everyone who read, left kudos, or commented on H1. It's only for all of you that I keep writing, and I NEED writing to keep from going bonkers. Seriously, you all mean the world to me, you don't even know. 
> 
> THAAAAANK YOUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> <3<3<3


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